horizon touched by black smoke, rising in a morning fire isn’t this what i dreamed about, aren’t the crows screaming for war to come?

yonder i will follow the flock of birds, only the sun will touch the sky, a lynx will leave a trace on snowy light landscapes in the morning, with the migration of snow-white clouds, i’ll go hence, and the boughs will drop a shawl under my feet

in the new morning, through endless fields, i’ll go away, beyond the horizon where the birds are in exile for black smoke

i’ll follow all the storms, on the way of birds flown away and their forgotten traces on snow in the morning, i’ll follow a pallas’ cat, that smelled fresh prey, i’ll onward speed and on my cheekbones will snow fall and remain there evermore.

the smoke of black fires spreads in the distance closing half of the sky, the logs of burned dwellings, push their bony fingers through the ice. above the ash of old gardens, the winds blow in their impotent rage, pain of wrested words, grows from the charred sky.

you, my burnt motherland you are hot ardent ash, is this you, on whom i have to sprinkle water…? touch… die but avenge…